Page 13 of Suddenly Yours

“I, uh, are you okay?” I stammered.

He wiped his face with his forearm as water continued dripping down his face and neck.

He reached over and, fighting the stream of water, turned a valve until the spray stopped.

“Yeah, it’s just water.” He glanced up and smirked at me. “I’m glad you got to enjoy the show,” he said, shifting to look at the pipes.

Thankfully, he was too busy to see that my cheeks went up in flames. “I did try and warn you,” I pointed out.

“Mmm. Sure,” he said without glancing in my direction.

I hovered awkwardly as he worked, muscles flexing beneath that wet shirt. Every time he leaned forward, my traitor eyes followed the movement like they’d been trained.

“Hand me that adjustable wrench?” he asked without looking up.

I handed him a whisk.

He snorted, turning slightly to look up at me. He rolled his eyes, and I smiled mischievously.

“Right. Tools. Your type of tools.” I scrambled over to his toolbox and passed him the first thing I could grab.

He snorted again, turning just enough to glance up at me from where he was half-curled under the sink. “Missy.” The way he said my name was half warning, half exasperation, all older brother, and definitely half-amused man trying not to laugh at me.

“Yes?” I asked sweetly.

He rolled his eyes so hard his whole head followed. “That is not a wrench.”

“It looks wrench-ish.”

“It’s a screwdriver.”

“Well,” I sniffed, “in my defense, it was the closest thing within my reach.”

“You called me here, remember? Either you want me to fix this or I can go…” He started to get up but I stopped him.

“Fine, I’ll get you the right tools. I promise.” I bent down and picked up the wrench.

He opened his mouth, probably to say something annoyingly logical, but I held out the tool.

“Here,” I said, handing it to him with a flourish. “Your wrench.”

He bit back a laugh and then lost the battle with it. His shoulders shook as he reached for it. “Thank you.”

“I’m useful,” I said, leaning one shoulder against the counter, as if I wasn’t internally melting over the fact that his forearm flexed impressively when he lifted the tool.

“Don’t you have a cake or something to bake?” he said as he slid the wrench into place and tightened something with a quiet grunt that did not need to be as attractive as it was. Water dripped down the pipe and splashed onto his cheek, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

“Icing,” I corrected. “It’s all baked. I only have a few more flowers.” I glanced over at the cake in question. Honestly, it was done. I was still contemplating putting a few more small flowers on the sides. No, it was done. I should leave it the way it was.

“This should hold it for the night. I’ll bring a new part in the morning,” he said.

“Should?” I echoed. “Like… eighty percent should? Fifty? Please tell me we’re above thirty.”

He smirked up at me as he sat up. “Ninety-eight percent.” He shifted.

“I can live with ninety-eight.” I peered under the sink, pretending to inspect his work, even though all I saw were pipes and more pipes. “Well done. You may continue being smug.”

“Oh, good,” he said dryly. “I was worried you’d revoke my privileges.”